Page 103 of Wicked Spite
“Feel better now, baby?” Penn murmurs in my ear, his breath hot against my neck. I shudder involuntarily, caught between the horrors unfolding before me and the need between us.
“Strangely enough…I do,” I admit, my voice barely audible over the sound of my father’s anguished cries. It’s not the kind of justice I imagined. I don’t know what I expected years ago, but there’s something cathartic about watching the man who tormented me for so long finally burn to a crisp.
As we leave the warehouse together, hand in hand, I can’t help but feel elated.
“Well, I feel better,” Penn says as he hauls me up in the truck where Ramsey is waiting, eyes glued to his phone.
“You love me,” I reply, leaning into him. “And I can finally take a fullbreath.”
Penn smirks, grabbing me by the chin and dragging my face closer. “I had a feeling you’d say that,” he murmurs, lowering his lips to mine. “Because I do love you more than anything,” he murmurs when he pulls away. “And no one, except for me, will ever touch you again.”
“I love you too,” I tell him, leaning in for one more kiss before leaning back into the truck.
Ramsey looks up from his phone, a teasing grin spreading across his face as he opens his mouth to comment on Penn’s rare moment of vulnerability. But before he can get the words out, Penn levels a hard stare at his cousin, his eyes flashing dangerously.
“I’d think real careful about whatever smartass comment you were about to make if I were you, cuz,” Penn says, his voice low and threatening. “Unless you want me spilling all your dirty little secrets.”
Ramsey’s grin fades, his face paling at the mention of his discretions. “Alright, alright, point taken,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender before turning his attention back to his phone.
I no longer hear the screams or see the fire. I wonder how long a body burns before it goes out. Guess I’ll never know as I glance through the window as Penn drives right past the hangar that’s dissolving the last of my shame.
Chapter 39
Penn
Istride into my father’s house, whistling a little tune that I know will carry through these fancy ass stone walls to wherever my father has perched his evil, overdressed ass.
“Daddy, I’m home!” My voice rings out with a sing-song cadence, dripping with mock innocence. “I fear I have something to tell you that will ruin your day, and that makes me giddy.”
There’s a sanctimonious pause as my words hang in the air, just long enough for the servants to scatter like cockroaches. I imagine Robert perched in his study, surrounded by leather-bound volumes of Machiavellian wisdom and ledgers soaked in blood money. He always did think of himself as some kind of omnipotent puppet master.
I stroll down the hallway until I come upon the open door of hislair, surrounded by mahogany shelves lined with books and the lingering scent of cigar smoke. He doesn’t even flinch at my entrance. Just sits there behind his massive oakdesk, eyes flicking up from some document as if I’m nothing more than an inconvenience.
“Penn Robert,” he says, his voice as smooth and chilling as ice sliding down your spine. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I reply, leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe. “Just thought you should know I killed our friend, John St. Pierre.”
His eyebrow arches ever so slightly—a minuscule gesture really, but one that sends waves of satisfaction through me.
“That’s right,” I continue, my voice dripping with gleeful poison. “Hogtied, shattered a few bones, a couple of cuts and then flambéed for what he did to Reagan and what he tried to do to her sister.”
With an almost theatrical nonchalance, he shrugs. A shrug. Like I just told him I ran over the neighbor’s cat or something equally mundane.
“He hurt my wife,” I continue, my voice level and just as mundane as his attitude. “Sold her as a fucking child and then tried to do the same to her sister. I’d kill him all over again if I could.”
“Is that so?” His tone is flat, devoid of any real emotion. Next thing I know he’s going to want to discuss the weather.
“Yeah, that’s fucking so,” I finally snap, stepping closer until I’m looming over him. “You hear me, old man? I ended him. For Reagan. For her sister. Hell, maybe even for me.”
“Well,” Robert says, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands across his chest. “Seems you’ve been busy.”
“Busy?” I bark out a bitter laugh. “Is that all you have to say? I killed a very valuable business partner of yours, and you’re sitting there like we’re talking about stock prices.”
“Stocks are more predictable,” he replies, his lips curling into a cold, thin smile. “People, less so.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Am I?” he asks, raising an eyebrow again, this time with a hint of amusement. “Or am I exactly what you’ve always known me to be?”
